


Dawn on the Anduin

by Muccamukk



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Field of Cormallen, Fourth Age, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-08 13:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16430708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muccamukk/pseuds/Muccamukk
Summary: While the host rested on the Field of Cormallen, a messenger arrived from the north.





	Dawn on the Anduin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynndyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/gifts).



Legolas had taken to wandering the green woods of Ithilien, at times with Gimli but often alone under the stars. He sang sometimes, glad to be able to without fear, and more glad still to have growing things listening all around him. It was a fair place, and would be fairer still if his folk came and dwelt there.

He liked to picture how it would look after two or three generations of men had passed and the trees had begun to grow into themselves. Gimli had laughed when Legolas said that, and told him that he should try working in stone. Gimli talked about building so that time and water would finish and ornament his work, and again about the Glittering Caves.

"You must see them, my friend," Gimli had said, and Legolas had again promised that he would.

Now, as the dawn awkened, Legolas returned to the glade at the edge of the Field of Cormallen where he and Gimli had made their camp. He'd expected to find Gimli still asleep, but as he approached, Legolas saw his cloaked figure sitting with his back to a silver-barked birch smoking pensively.

"Good morrow, friend," Legolas said. He disliked the scent of pipe-weed, but held the company of those who smoked it too dearly to complain of it. He sat cross-legged in front of Gimli, the moss soft beneath them, and wondered how long they would stay in this place. If Aragorn had a plan, he was keeping it close. Across the river, the sun was just touching Mindolluin's snowy peak with rosy light. "It will be a fair day."

"Aye," Gimli agreed. He looked up at the growing light and thus away from Legolas. "Have you seen Aragorn since dinner?"

Legolas shook his head. "I've been abroad. Is there news?"

"There is," Gimli answered shortly. He hesitated then, but the way his head was turned, Legolas could not see his face behind the edge of his hood. The pipe glowed as Gimli drew a long breath and then exhaled the smoke into the morning air. "You should speak with Aragorn. It concerns your folk as well."

They'd had no word from anywhere past Rohan since the dawn of Gondor's new age, and only then from Lothlórien on Gandalf's return. The doings of Legoslas's homeland and lord remained obscure. Legolas itched to seek Aragorn out and find what he had learned, and yet he could not leave Gimli here smoking in his obvious gloom. "What of your folk?" Legolas asked. "What of the Erebor?"

"Besieged," Gimli said, calling up a hundred horrors and memories of Moria and of Helm's Deep with one word, stories too of Gondolin and Nargothrond, and a thousand deaths over thousands of years. "Ten days besieged. My people and the men of Dale broke free the day the Enemy fell, but at great cost."

Where had Legolas's people been? Fighting their own battles, he assumed, and imagined fighting under the trees such as he hadn't known since the days of the Witch King in Dol Guldur. "And your folk?"

"Dáin Ironfoot, Son of Náin, the King Under the Mountain, my kinsman, lies dead." Gimli said the words precisely and without emotion, as though reading them without comprehension. "Thorin Stonehelm, Son of Dáin, rules my people now."

"Sad tidings," Legolas said simply. There was nothing else he could say in the face of his friend's grief. "What of your father?"

Gimli turned to Legolas shaking his hood away from his face. His dark eyes were bright and wet, but no tears yet marked his cheeks. "I have no word save of the king," he said. "The messenger was one of your folk, and did not know. King Brand is dead also, and a great many men of Esgaroth."

"More news will follow. He cannot have expected to find a Dwarf of Erebor here," Legolas said, though he knew he was excusing his father's messenger. Had he known that Gimli was here, the messenger still would not likely have carried the names along with the tally of the dead.

"Nor a prince of Mirkwood," Gimli agreed, and for once took the sop of comfort as it was meant instead of arguing. "He started at your name, Aragorn said, and asked to speak with you before he departed for the north."

"Today?" Legolas asked, then shook his head. "It is no matter. I need not seek him. A messenger of my kingdom will find me before he takes his leave."

Gimli lifted his chin, a small jerk of acknowledgement of Legolas's choice. Not six months before, Legolas had would have read the gesture as closed-hearted arrogance, not the deeply-felt gratitude that it was. Legolas knew also that Gimli tapping out the bowl of his pipe and setting it aside was an invitation, so he leaned forward and rested his forehead against Gimli's. Gimli put his broad hands on Legolas's shoulders, his thumbs touching the naked skin at Legolas's throat, and they stayed like that until the sun struck the river with gold.


End file.
